


the splendour of the storm

by ultraviolence



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: Begging, F/M, Kissing, Lingerie, One Night Stands, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Teasing, buried tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-29
Packaged: 2019-08-09 13:35:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16450940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: She claimed she had something to show him.He was amused. Things go from there.





	the splendour of the storm

**Author's Note:**

> YES it's another self-indulgent piece. This is written in the wake of Larturia Alter's new CE because...have you seen IT? Oh my god. Also dedicated to my original OTP, Gil/Arturia. Although in this case, Gil/Larturia Alter. Writing them is challenging, but it's worth it.
> 
> Anyway, please enjoy!

" _Your eyes reflect the splendour of the storm._ "

\- Renée Vivien

 

The night was still young and the sky studded with stars—he imagined, remembering Uruk’s nights, so different from this sterile and unnatural place—when he heard the rap on his door. The King of Heroes was bored, as always—such is his usual state, especially in Chaldea where nothing interesting ever happened—but the knock sounded familiar, and although he wasn’t quite in the mood to receive guests, he was indeed in the mood for something interesting, something that could satisfy his appetite for excitement.

He waved a hand to open the door. “Enter,” he said, in a bored tone. “State yourself and your business, and if you’re just here to grovel, or pretend that you can rival me in any way—if it’s _you_ —then leave.”

His visitor, however, wasn’t who he thinks it is, and Gilgamesh couldn’t contain his smirk.

The girl— _woman_ —who stood before him as the door closed behind her wasn’t anyone particularly interesting, in his opinion, but they’d crossed paths before (and more than that, besides) and it was sufficient to arouse something akin to interest in his heart. Moreover, the fact that her hand kept going to the front of her dusky cloak furtively, combined with her grim expression and the miniscule frown (they’d been together enough times for Gilgamesh to start noticing things about her that he didn’t notice before, although not in _that_ way) that she wore makes him sit up and take notice. 

_She_ , in his opinion, was not the real thing, not the real Arturia Pendragon—not without the Holy Sword—and she would never be, just a pale shadow of her younger Saber counterpart, despite the dark, jagged crown perched upon her brow. She would never quell the burning burning burning of his heart—the desire to possess and conquer—for King Arthur, the legend made flesh, but her own interest in him was real and tangible enough, and Gilgamesh is always on the lookout for something—or some _one_ —to pass his time. 

He doesn’t give a damn about her reason, he only cared about the fact that he had, indeed, possessed her, to some degree. He had possessed one of Arthur’s many incarnations. And that means he was in the right track of completing his ultimate goal of subduing Saber.

“It’s me,” she said, formally, stiffly, a moment after the door had closed behind her and after silence had made itself known. “I’ve had something to show you, o great King of Heroes.”

That was quite strange. Lancer was not known for her flattery. She was tugging at the front of her cloak nervously, a pale girl in all-too big kingly trapping, all darkness and storms after the grail corrupted her, so different from her noble counterpart, standing all alone in front of his great majesty.

He smiled, lazily. It’s not like Lancer to be nervous in his presence, but then again, that had been and should always be the norm. It’s about time she started. 

“Flattery will get you everywhere with me. But that’s old news,” he said, waving it aside. “If you have something to show me, then show me, instead of wasting my time, Lancer.”

Her eyes narrowed for a second—he sensed the storm in her—but her expression returned to how it usually was, stoic and distant. Gilgamesh was a little disappointed, but he was still a little intrigued.

“Archer. You’re arrogant as always. You know that I could crush you with a single blow of my Rhogomyniad,” she said, and Gilgamesh had to laugh at that. To think that this little girl could crush him. Such is the arrogance of the weak, and a pale imitation at that. Her face changed again at his laugh, and he marvelled at his impact upon her. “You _are_ irritating,” she declared, “but I will show you. Perhaps…” she trailed off, her gaze softens a little as she gestured towards him, “…closer?”

“Closer,” he remarked, conjuring a glass of wine as he tasted the word in his mouth. Both wine and word tasted sweet, with a little sour aftertaste. He considered it for a moment. “Yes. I shall allow you that.”

She looked at him, still stiff, but then she moved closer towards him—he was seated on a plush, lavish sofa, part of his effort to decorate his so-called room to fit his impossibly high standards—with fluid grace, the grace of predators, and he nearly forgot that she was just a plaything, a paramour. Something fleeting and fancy, to be looked at now and then put away later. 

She slid to his lap—this little girl, this imitation—and, to the sound of his amused laugh, she slowly stripped off her cloak to reveal what was within. She never wore such a modest cape before—in terms of skin being covered—and now that she’d stripped it off and letting it fall to his feet, he knows what she was hiding.

He let his eyes roved over her body, her exposed skin, leering, as it was, at his personal plaything, although she would never ever let him call her that. The curves of her breasts under the revealing silk of the lingerie beckoned him, as was her thighs and the warmth she emitted. 

His interest in Arturia was something…personal, since he saw her as someone he should have possessed, but his interest in her Lancer Alter counterpart was purely physical. 

“Do you like it?” she breathed, and Gilgamesh found that his hands had moved of their own accord, his fingers already tracing a line to her chest, so near and so warm. Her face was flushed, and he brought it close, his lips touching hers, already kissing her hotly.

“We’ll see,” he told her, fingers teasing her right nipple, feeling it stiffen under the gossamer material. “I want to see what you can do with it.”

To his surprise, she pulled him closer by the front of his shirt and slipped her hot tongue inside his mouth, tasting him, and he let her, just this once. Her mouth was warm, and she tasted a little like the aftermath of a rainstorm, with the hint of berries. She slid her hand to his left thigh, caressing it, her mouth finding his earlobe, now, biting it playfully. 

“Be careful of what you wish for,” she warned, her hand still on his thigh, smirking when she managed to make him moan. “I could be more than you’ve bargained for, Archer.”

“I found your tendency to boast while I’m trying to fuck you irritating,” he told her, bluntly, laughing just a little, pushing her away to sip his wine. “If you stopped bragging and shut that pretty little mouth, Lancer, I might find you intriguing.”

“Maybe _you_ should learn how to shut up,” she told him in return, stiffly still, in contrast with how she touched him earlier, coldly, oh, ever so coldly, and it made Gilgamesh wanted her more, if not the sensation of her skin on his forever, then at the moment. 

He laughed and pulled her closer, and for a moment, there were no more words, as their lips found one another and their hands and bodies discovered and entangled with each other. He could feel himself growing hard, blood flowing to his cock, as she shifted on his lap, stroking his cock every now and then, enough to keep him going. For his part, he gleefully left marks all over her neck and collarbone, lips sucking in and teeth biting, only hard enough to make her moan, forever for more, her pleasure audible and tangible. 

He trailed his finger down down to her collarbone, brushing Arturia’s hair lightly in a gesture that could be called gentle—if Gilgamesh could ever be called that—feeling every mark that he made with his fingertips, teasing her sex through the silken material lightly with his now-erect cock—he loves it when she trembles with equal parts pleasure and disdain, oh, he knows her all too well by now, not just her curves, but her _desires_ as well—sliding the strap slowly down her right shoulder. 

He found himself being surprised again when she pushed him back, pinning him to the sofa, straddling him, her lips finding his before Gilgamesh could ever get a chance to protest.

“Checkmate,” she said, flatly, and he smirked at her as though he still had control because he _is_. But he’s letting her have an illusion of it, at least just a smidge. He pulled her close again, pushing down the other strap, exposing her breasts. 

“Not yet,” he murmured, lips kissing her now-exposed breasts, tonguing her stiff nipples, then down, holding her there as she trembled and moaned.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, almost pleading, and Gilgamesh wanted to laugh. Even as Arthur’s pale shadow, Lancer was still her, in a way, and to imagine the King of Knights begging him not to stop while they were having sex…the thought is enough to make him continue what he’s doing with a renewed fervour, licking her belly button and then down to her cunt—pushing her lace panties aside—enjoying the sensation of her writhing against him. 

Then, indelicately, carelessly, he flipped their positions.

“Check _mate_ ,” he declared, not triumphantly because from the beginning the triumph had already been his, the King of Heroes, the greatest of all the Heroes, the beginning and the end, sliding a finger inside her cunt, pushing the silk aside. She was wet already, and oh, how she _moaned_. Gilgamesh enjoyed every second of it, and, more importantly, he enjoyed how she looked, so beautiful and vulnerable and _his_ , all spread out underneath him, and he felt the stirrings of… _something_.

He brought his finger to the tip of his tongue, tasting her, and laughed.

“ _You_ are awful, Gil,” his paramour told him, her voice all raspy and undone, and he couldn’t help but laugh again. It felt like it was built into him, this endless amusement over things like this.

“And are you not, for approaching me like this?” he tested, all arrogance and endless golden flame. He let her ride him, once, and it was like riding a nightmare, or a long, endless dream, all storms and wildfires and war. She was a goddess of war, the King of Storms, and he liked her because of it.

“You’re— ah, _stop_ ,” she moaned, since he fingered her again, caring not a single shred about the flimsy-looking lingerie. His lips found her neck, and he did not stop kissing, licking and biting her until she pushed him away.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, lazily, feline-like, “are you getting more than you bargained for, Lancer? Do you want me now?” he whispered, biting her in the collarbone, hands stroking her thighs, fingertips teasing her. “How badly do you want me?”

Arturia grasped him by the shoulders, firmly, kissing him on the lips, roughly, biting his bottom lip before she pulled away. “You know I’m not playing around,” she said, “fuck me, Gil.”

“Are you going to say please?” he teased her, and he might as well still be drinking his glass of wine, which he had forgotten when the night unfolds. “Are you going to say please, my King of Storms?” he added, whispering them in her ear now, giving her enough friction to motivate her. 

There was silence after what he said—his question remained—punctuated by the sound of her ragged breathing. 

“Yes,” she said, and he pulled back just enough for her to see his raised eyebrow, waiting for her to say it. “Please. Please. I can’t wait much longer,” she breathed—how it started a firestorm in his heart, to hear her say it, even if he’d heard her said it before—and he believed her. 

“Can’t wait much longer for _what_?” he couldn’t help it even if he tried. He enjoyed teasing her, and he knows how much Arturia despised it. In that sense, she was the same as her real counterpart.

“I swear to all the gods, Gilgamesh, I’m going to kill you— _ah_ ,” he cuts short her threat by forcing her legs apart a little bit more and teased her with what was to come by thrusting his cock once, twice, and that was more than enough to make her body sing with equal parts joy and want. 

He smirked for his glory, and he tipped her head by the chin, forcing her to look at him. 

“Anything else you’d like to say before I robbed you of your ability to speak completely?”

He might as well be looking down at her while sloshing his wine, so smug his expression was, so full of what’s to come, and she flushed, biting her bottom lip again, clearly torn between wanting him inside her and wanting to punch him in the face. 

“I want you inside me,” she said, flatly still, though the trembling in her body betrays her true emotion, “but you should get rid of your clothes. I can…help you with it.”

She was batting her eyelashes, somewhat—either an instinctive reaction or something she decidedly wanted to try out, too—and he couldn’t, really couldn’t, help but laugh his signature laugh. “Look at you, Lancer,” he gloated, kissing her once, twice, “you came to me. You pleaded, begged, and now you’re trying to _seduce_ me?” he languidly let his fingertips traced circles on her flat, pale belly, “my possession started to enjoy being possessed, after all.”

At this, she hissed and pulled him close, indelicately unbuttoning his shirt. He tried to catch her hand, but on second thought, he changed his mind and let her do it. She pushed it aside once she’s done, letting it pool on the floor. Then she kissed him, fiercely, angrily, her nails leaving scratches on his now exposed back. He wanted to laugh—the pain was trivial, but the pleasure of riling her up was more… _permanent_. It rekindled the fire in the bottom of his belly, the fire that she’d started tonight like a storm, like the apocalypse, and gods, as much as he played his cards close to his chest, he wanted her, too.

Arturia could probably tell by now, judging from his thundering heartbeats. Though he’s not the only one.

“Do you see?” she demanded, unzipping his trousers and pulling his cock out, “I am not your possession, Gilgamesh. Not now, not ever.”

“You know I don’t argue,” he told her, lazily, with the assurance of someone who had never lost. In fact, he never entered into any argument in the first place, because it’s clear that it was all beneath him. Gilgamesh, King of Heroes, stand tall above all. 

Before _she_ could argue, he kisses her neck, again, letting her moan wantonly for him. Then he readies himself, and teases his entrance once more, this time letting more than the tip in, but he pulls out again before she could get complete satisfaction from him. Her moans quickly turned into whimpers, and she yanked him close in a desperate attempt to force him to get inside her.

“You bastard,” she breathed, and Gilgamesh smirked. For all his games, though, he couldn’t hold it in much longer, either—though he would never, ever admit it, especially to Ozymandias—and he smoothed her hair, as gentle as a lover can be, although they are clearly not lovers. What they are is of no concern to him. Right now his only concern is to satisfy himself, and to satisfy his paramour in the sense of maintaining his superiority (and virility). 

“A King must do what a King must,” he said, not bothering with her crown. She looked beautiful like that, all mussed-up hair and chaos, and he would be lying if he wasn’t feeling something something _something_ in the bottom of his heart, just a little, something that he’d never felt before. “I thought you already know that, my little Knight.”

And with that, he pushed his trousers down and thrusts himself inside her, feeling her legs clamped around his hips, thrusting thrusting thrusting until he felt the storm inside his head, felt the drumming and the apocalypse, and he came inside her, fast, sweat staining his brows—his _perfect_ brows, he would say—pulling out only when it was the very last second, the very last drop. He still felt her grasping for him, for friction and heat, until Arturia, too, came, Gilgamesh’s name on her lips, cunt slick and dripping with his seed, their bodies pressed close together on the couch, the Holy Grail war forgotten. 

She wasn’t very pleased with the fact that she came after him (she claimed that it was proof that Gilgamesh wasn’t able to satisfy his lovers very well, which is very much a bogus claim, thank you), or how he treated her in the aftermath.

“You are kicking me out,” she said, disbelief written all over her face after he told her that he’s done and that he doesn’t want to be disturbed for the rest of the night, as if this was their first time. There was an interplay of emotions afterwards: disbelief, anger, disgust, hate, until it finally settled down to something dispassionate and aloof, her usual expression. Gilgamesh knows this too: she distanced herself when she was uncomfortable with something, forever seeing a long dream that only she herself could see.

“Am I unclear in any way?” he said, raising a blond eyebrow, not bothering to get dressed before he continued doing what he was doing earlier before she arrived. 

“No,” she responded, monotone, almost bored, “you are a heartless tyrant, Gilgamesh, as usual. And that’s how it would remain,” she added, cryptically, picking her cloak off the floor. 

To _her_ surprise, he rose from his seat, and—strange as the night was—captured her face with his free hand, kissing her on the lips, not lustfully, or forcefully, but gently, as gentle as a night breeze. 

“That’s how it would remain,” he echoed, boredom already etched into his tone, “goodnight, Arturia.”

She seemed so surprised—although he swiftly put himself out of reach and pretended to be busy summoning another bottle of wine—clutching her cloak, for a moment looking like the lost little girl that she was, not the King of Storms and the Wild Hunt, that Gilgamesh almost felt sorry for her. But it is what it is, and she’s right: he’s a heartless tyrant.

“Goodnight,” she cleared her throat, already halfway out through the door, “Gil.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think, comments & suggestions welcome <3


End file.
